Life is Mad
The imperfection of life, of imagination, of community, of spiritual atunement, of love. The truth is much more complicated as we exist within metaphorical epicycles of recursion.
The expectations of career and love and I'm just here. Suddenly dawning on me the love that I'm already in; and I enjoy it alone when I stay in. I share what I can but I stock a pile. I waft like one wind to disperse a cloud.
The fact that we see through eyes, speak through tongue, love through bodies, and know through strangers.
Life is perfectly suited to drive one mad.